


Handknit Spock Sweaters

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Spock’s hidden talents proves useful during the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handknit Spock Sweaters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Acaranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaranna/gifts).



> A/N: Happy Holidays, Ranna! I took your “Spock knows how to knit, he learned it form his mother - and he wants to do something for Christmas as well”, slash, and kid!fic prompts.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The captain can’t afford time off like the rest of the crew, but the days are ticking down. Jim’s got a weekend reserved for just the family, and after missing his first officer on the bridge today, that time is something he’s looking forward to. 

He half hopes Spock will be waiting right in the living room for him, but when Jim opens the door to their quarters, there’s no one at eye-level. Just below that, a streak of pale skin and black hair blurs across the floor, latching onto Jim around the knees, and Jim nearly topples over into the hall.

“You’re home!” Taurik exclaims, like he thought Jim was never going to be again. It’s a superfluous statement, but Spock isn’t around to scold their little Vulcan-in-the-making.

So Jim scoops his son up into his arms, chirping, “Hello,” and stepping fully through the doors. Taurik weighs more than Jim remembers, but he always seems to; he gets bigger every day. His child-soft face is starting to look more and more like Spock, though Jim can see a bit of himself in those wide, excited eyes. He means to ask how Taurik’s day was, but then his eyes draw down Taurik’s little body, wrapped in a too-big sweater. 

Last he remembered, there aren’t any too-big, gaudy green-and-red sweaters like this in any of their wardrobes. While he stares at it, Taurik explains, “Daddy made it for me.”

Jim asks, “Did he?” The tone is rhetorical, though he is curious; it doesn’t seem very logical to put the clothing Synthesizers to such a use. Taurik turns in Jim’s arms and points towards the bedroom, and Jim nods in understanding, walking off with his son’s legs around him and smaller arms around his shoulders. 

He finds Spock in the corner of the next room, set up at a desk with a spool of wool on the table and two large, wooden knitting needles in his hands. His fingers are busily making patterns, as efficient as they always are, but Jim never thought he’d see them put to such a use. 

Spock acknowledges, “Jim.”

And Jim says, “Spock.”

And Taurik, adorable and clever as he is, chimes in, “Taurik.” Jim laughs and rewards him with a peck on the forehead, despite Spock’s disapproving look. 

“This is what you spent your day on?”

Jim tries to lower Taurik to the floor as he approaches the desk, but Taurik only clings on tighter, so Jim resolves to carry him. It’s even rarer for Spock to take a day off than Jim, but when Bones insisted they were both working too much lately, Spock gave in surprisingly easily. Now Spock explains, “Knitting is a considerably time-consuming activity, particularly if one wants to finish a family set in time for their t’hy’la’s holiday.” Jim’s face is tugging into the familiar grin that Spock’s formal language always plasters all over him. 

He has half a mind to say it’s hardly _his_ holiday, but many of the human crew do celebrate various holidays around this time, and Christmas is the one Jim’s mother always paid the most attention to. He wanted to share it with Spock and Taurik too, but he had no idea that would include garish over-sized sweaters. In an attempt to hold himself back from laughing, he diverts the conversation to: “Since when do you know how to knit?”

“My mother taught me,” Spock answers simply, as though it’s perfectly normal to find a Vulcan knitting in your quarters. “It is a methodical and soothing process, not entirely unlike meditation. My father approved. It was Doctor McCoy, however, that informed me of the tradition known as ‘Christmas sweaters.’” Of course. Jim highly doubts Bones meant for this to happen, though. 

Taurik asks for him, “Are you going to make one for Uncle Bones, Dad?”

Spock says bluntly, “No.”

“Aw,” Taurik whines, “but he’s part of the family.”

“Yeah,” Jim throws in, mimicking their son’s tone. “You should make Bones one.”

“If Doctor McCoy wishes to own a Christmas sweater, he is free to take up knitting.”

And that really makes Jim laugh, because the thought of Bones grumbling over a failed stitch and trying to sit patiently for long enough to make anything noteworthy is a comical notion. He imagines the grumbling would be worse, though, if Bones were actually to receive an ugly sweater and be expected to wear it. 

Taurik interrupts his thoughts by saying, “Dad, you should put yours on.” And then Taurik looks down at the ground, indicating he’d like to be released. Jim bends to help him climb down, and as soon as Taurik’s feet hit the floor, he’s walking over to the closet.

“You finished mine?” Jim asks. He would’ve thought one day wouldn’t be nearly enough to make two sweaters, but then, he doesn’t know anything about knitting, and Spock is... _Spock._

Spock finally slows the constant motion of his fingers. Taurik, keying the closet open, tugs at the hem of a great, fuzzy, golden thing, sporting a distorted picture of a tree and something that might be a reindeer but looks more like a sehlat. He finds himself stifling a chuckle as he pulls it out, more fondness than amusement. It feels warm and soft in his hands, and though Spock would say it foolish, Jim could swear he can _feel_ the love in his hands. 

He places it gently on the bed and strips his own golden tunic over his head, the standard issue, black undershirt staying underneath. Then he’s pulling the sweater over his head, delighting in the soft scratch it drags along his cheeks and the thick, comforting feel. He hasn’t had _real_ clothes in a long time; everything in his closet is standard-issue, perfectly cut and tailored with precision. Spock’s work is flawless too, but not quite at the same molecular level, and all the tiny bumps and pockets Jim does feel make him glow. His husband _made_ this for him, and it matches their son’s. 

He notes, with pleasure, the squiggled gold stitching along the wrists: his captain’s rank. He hopes Spock’s will carry that of a first officer; their ship and these ties are an intrinsic part of them that he’s more than happy to show off. As he smoothes the knit out over his stomach, Taurik tugs at the hem, steps back and decides, “Mine’s better.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jim muses. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Spock moving, and he looks up to find his husband weaving around their son, coming to tug at Jim’s shoulders and arms, patting down over his chest and inspecting the fit. Jim tells him quietly, “It’s perfect.”

Spock responds, “It will suffice.” But he’s looking down, which is a sure sign he can’t trust himself to meet Jim’s eyes. Not in front of Taurik anyway, when there’s still work to do—that third sweater to make—and they can’t just sweep off to be alone. 

Jim says, “Thank you.” Spock nods his head once and withdraws his long fingers from Jim’s body, though all their warmth still lingers. 

Spock makes his way back to the desk, sits down and returns to knitting. His seems to be mostly blue: another good fit for a science officer. While Jim’s staring, Taurik wanders back to the closet, looking around inside, and asks, “What am I getting for Christmas?”

“Your presents aren’t in there,” Jim says, “And you know it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

Taurik sticks back out of the closet. “I don’t understand why.” 

Jim looks over at Spock for help, but Spock says, “I also do not understand why.”

And Jim finds himself with two flat, Vulcan stares devoid of comprehension. Perhaps surprises aren’t particularly logical, but that’s the way it’s done. “It’s part of the tradition.” Taurik wrinkles his nose but seems to accept it, because he comes back to Jim and opens his arms. Jim, determined to carry their son for as long as he can before their little boy turns into a little man, scoops Taurik back up. He has the sudden urge to leave their quarters, to dip down to the mess hall and parade their new gifts about, but he doesn’t want to leave without Spock, and Spock is clearly focused on his task. 

They’ll have to settle for a dinner in and a proud display tomorrow. Jim suggests, “Let’s get some food for our hardworking clothier.” And Taurik giggles, clutching at the fuzzy fabric over Jim’s shoulders. 

Jim takes him back out the door they came through, hyper aware of his lover’s subtle gaze following his back. Hopefully, Spock enjoys seeing his handiwork in use. Jim certainly enjoys wearing it. 

But then, he enjoys everything about his family, and he imagines they’re going to have a perfect Christmas, even if they do end up having to hold Bones down long enough to ugly-sweater him.


End file.
